


John and Mary

by Lady_Grumpsalot



Category: The Revenant (2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-11 20:18:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7906192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Grumpsalot/pseuds/Lady_Grumpsalot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story explores the events that shaped John Fitzgerald into who and what he is.<br/>After all, bad people are made, not born, and darkness becomes darker when you've known the light. And who never stumbled when unable to see?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When one's Cupid carries a gun (and a couple of knives), one doesn't really get to say no. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I'm not gonna pretend that I know much about the epoch and the whole trapping & fur trading thing. I just wanted to write about Fitzgerald. Guilty as charged.  
> Also: the following is just a wild headcanon which has no ground other than the author's fantasy. So yay. 
> 
> Concerning the prices: this was the hardest part, actually. There're no dollars or pounds in my country, so converting currencies is mind-boggling for me as it is. And now we have 19th century money. Boom.  
> So I did a little research and found out that 'the value of a made beaver in the Columbia District in 1837 was 10 shillings, or half of one British Pound'. Since there were actual numbers, I took it. I don't know if it's historically correct. Probably not. But anyway.
> 
> P.S. If you recognized a song title in the first sentence, you get a special witchy cookie, heathen!

There was time in John Fitzgerald’s life when he completely swore off love and marriage. His memories of the childhood consisted mainly of his parents arguing and squabbling, his father drinking, shouting and beating every living being he could lay his eyes on, his mother screaming and weeping, and of himself hiding under the bed, eyes red and backside sore. He wasn’t too sensitive and never pitied himself but he didn’t wish that experience on anyone – neither a girl that could become his wife nor the children they would have. They didn’t deserve that and he knew they’d face it sooner or later for he was much like his father. So much, in fact, that the old bastard never dared to even touch him since he turned eleven and proved that he well knew how to use a knife outside of hunting.

So when he saw Mary – Miss Simmons – for the first time, he decided to steer clear. A doctor’s daughter, pretty and polite, with fresh, expressive face, kind eyes and soft hands, she was no match for him or, for that matter, anyone in Fort Crossing. If he were her father, he’d take her to a proper town or city, he wouldn’t make her rust here. But he wasn’t her father. He was a young, fairly inexperienced trapper in search of his fortune and it just so happened that he fell in love with her the moment she appeared at the small, dirty square that made the center of the Fort.

He was sitting there behind a makeshift wobbly counter with a dozen beaver pelts on it. No one took any particular notice of him and he started to grow a bit angry when she approached him and asked if she could purchase just one pelt to make a muff. Other trappers laughed her off, she explained, since they wanted to sell their goods in bulk and to a richer customer, but she needed only one skin to make a muff for her father, the local doctor, who was getting older and whose fingers hurt in cold weather even if he was at home.

“So why do you come to me?”

She blushed a bit but didn’t back off.

“You have just a dozen pelts. It doesn’t make wholesale. So I thought you might be interested.”

He scratched his chin.

“Nine shillings.”

“Five.”

“What? Lady, I’m not a charity worker. I risked my life to get these pelts.”

“They,” she turned and pointed at his rivals haggling with merchants, “they ask for ten. And they are well known.”

“Eight.”

“Six.”

Surprisingly, he was no longer angry. In fact, he struggled with his intention to give her that bloody pelt for free. He could never do that, of course. First of all, he would be left even poorer than he was now. Secondly, that might make her come here again and he didn’t want it. He was afraid, mostly of himself.

“Alright, seven. And that’s my final word. You don’t wanna pay, you go trapping yourself.”

“Seven it is, then,” she produced a worn purse and handed him the coins. “Which one may I take?”

“Whichever you like,” grumbled he.

She took off a glove and stroked the pelts, evidently looking for the softest one. Fitzgerald watched the pale, delicate fingers caress shiny brown fur and suddenly realized that he was holding his breath.

“I’ll take this one. Thank you, Mr?..”

“Fitzgerald.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald. You are very kind.”

“Don’t mention it, Ms?..”

“Simmons. Still, thank you.”

He nodded and watched her cross the square and disappear in one of the houses – the one with a red chimney. Then he looked at the coins in his hand. His father was right. He was an idiot.


	2. Chapter 2

Fort Crossing was neither the biggest nor the smallest place. Around the square were an inn with a stable, a smithy, a tiny shop with a surprisingly decent assortment of products and a scattering of the residents’ houses. The house with a red chimney, once alike to its neighbors, now stood out to Fitzgerald like a diamond among grey rocks. Although he had decided that he shouldn’t even go near her, let alone talk to her, and had stuck to this promise, he couldn’t tame the flow of his thoughts. She had soft, pleasant voice and spoke very clearly, like an educated person. Her clothes were simple and a bit worn, but clean. What on earth was she doing here? And what was her father thinking, keeping her here and letting her go about her business alone? He noticed she turned quite a few heads when she walked the streets and she seemed oblivious to this fact and that sometimes made him sick. He tried reminding himself that she’d lived here for some time and no harm had come her way so far, and maybe the doctor was really respected so a very strict punishment awaited the violator, but… But that wasn’t his problem. No. He’d sold the pelts and for a good price, too, he made a deal with a bunch of trappers who arrived at the Fort the other day, so he had enough to worry about even without the girl. He had to stock up on food and other supplies, and with his budget that was no easy task. Besides, the merchant, a big, bear-like fellow named Harris, drove Fitzgerald mad with his love for bargaining and gossip.

Harris combined these two things in a truly devilish manner: he would start off with a friendly chatter and, having found out what the customer wanted, would knock the poor bastard out with an endless and unstoppable stream of local and not-so-local news mixed with Harris’ thoughts, opinions and comments on the purchase. The shocked and disoriented person would readily agree to any price named if it meant they’d get to escape. The crafty merchant never terrorized the locals, but every guest left his shop with a throbbing headache and a lighter purse.

“Have you heard ‘bout them Injuns? The scourge o’ this unfortunate land! What was it you wanted? Tobacco? Half a pound? Which one? This one’s better, that one’s cheaper. So have you heard, no? What they done to Jimmy? You know Jimmy, right?”

Fitzgerald grated his teeth.

“So you don’t, then,” continued Harris placidly. “He was Mr. Barret’s nephew, the eldest one, good lad, God bless ‘im! Always so helpful, so responsible, so polite! Went to be a soldier, like his other uncle, Jamie Barret – the first one was Jack, Jack Barret, a damn good blacksmith, if you ask me – and rose to be a colonel, can you imagine that? He was a good commander, always took care of his men – so did you choose the tobacco, eh? Just half a pound? You sure? I heard you gonna head to the frontier – ain’t no packed tobacco there, son, you gotta think ahead! So Jimmy boy, right, one day he went into the woods – he thought he heard some girl cry and wanted to help, like a proper gentleman, he been like that since he was a kid. So he goes there and sees someone bent down, doubled, like this… ugh, me back! It’s the way with your own business, son: first it breaks your heart, then it breaks your back. Now, where was I?”

“Tobacco. The cheap sort. Half a pound. Here’s the money.”

“Right, right. You sure you don’t want anythin’ else? A new pipe, maybe? Flint and steel? Pouch? Look at these ones, the leather ones – you can swim with ‘em and not a drop will get in!”

“Tobacco. Cheap. Half-pound. You’ve got the money.”

The door creaked and Fitzgerald’s heart jumped to his throat when he heard the familiar voice.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Harris!”

“Oh, Miss Mary, good afternoon!” beamed the merchant. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to buy some black thread, if you have it, and a pound of salt. Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Fitzgerald!”

“Good afternoon, Miss Simmons,” he managed a polite nod and a rather weak smile. “Sewn that muff?”

“Yes, that very day,” her smile, unlike his, was beautiful. “Father asked me to thank you for it, but I haven’t seen you until now.”

“I told you, don’t mention it. It was you who sewn it.”

“There you go, Miss Mary,” the merchant handed her the thread and the salt. “Send my regards to Dr. Simmons!”

“I will, thank you!” she put the thread in the pocket of coat and stuffed the bag of salt in a big basket she was holding, on top of something wrapped in a freshly bloodied cloth.

“That looks heavy,” Fitzgerald pointed at the basket. “Mind if I help you?”

“That would be very kind of you. I hope I’m not interrupting anything, though, am I?”

“No, no, it’s fine. Mr. Harris, let’s not keep the lady waiting.”

Harris, evidently disappointed, threw the tobacco on the counter.

“Alright, let’s go, Miss Simmons,” Fitzgerald took the basket and held the door open for the girl. “You need anything else? I mean, while I’m here.”

“No, not really, but thank you. Is it true that you are heading to the frontier?”

“Well, that’s the plan. Why?”

“Just feminine curiosity. I often think about you…” she stammered and blushed, but quickly composed herself, “about you trappers and frontiersmen. I think you all must be very brave to go there.”

 “Either brave or desperate. There’s good money out there. But no one can guarantee that you get it. You’re almost sure to get wounded or killed, though.”

“But what about families? The wives, the children?”

“It’s tough. But sometimes there’s no other way to make a living.”

“Is that… is that why you go? To support your family?”

“Nah, I’m on my own. Hope to make a fortune and move someplace better. Like Texas.”

“Why is Texas better than here?”

“You got me,” he chuckled. “I just always wanted to go there, since I was a kid. My pop had some buddies among Texas Rangers and when they all came to our house I listened to their stories. Now I wanna see everything they talked about with my own eyes. I hope I’ll get to do it.”

“I’m sure you will. When are you leaving?”

“In a couple days, I think. I got a deal with some fellas here, they agreed to take me on. I only have to wait till they got some rest. What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. How come you live here, in the middle of nowhere? No offense, but usually there are few girls like yourself at forts. If any.”

“I know what you mean, but I’d rather not talk about it. It’s a sad story.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s fine, you couldn’t know. That’s my house. Thank you for your help, Mr. Fitzgerald. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Miss Simmons.”

She took the basket from his hand, smiled and whisked inside. He sighed and headed for the inn. So much for his plan to stay away from her.

Once inside, in a stuffy, stinking room full of people drinking, shouting and singing, he felt his mind cloud with a familiar fog of bitter, targetless anger and ordered a bottle of rum. Several swigs later, when the world got blurred enough and the fog no longer threatened to choke him, he realized there was a girl sitting in his lap. He didn’t remember how she got there but it didn’t matter.

“You, go upstairs.”

“As you say, mister.”

 

An hour later he was sitting in the corner of his tiny room and watching the whore button her old tattered dress. Her fingers were shaking and the simple actions took more time than they should have. The mad hour brought Fitzgerald no satisfaction – instead, he was feeling dirtier than ever and was utterly disgusted with himself. He stood up, covering his lower half with a blanket, and approached the girl who was finally ready to leave.

“Here, take it.”

She swayed a little when she turned to him and her dull eyes looked at the coins he was offering. He’d already paid her but he reckoned some extra money was due. Evidently, she thought so, too, because she grabbed the coins and stuffed them in an inner pocket of her dirty waistcoat.

“Mister is very kind.”

He flinched at the words and locked the door the moment the girl stepped over the threshold. He cleaned himself up the best he could and lay on the bowed bed. He knew he had to leave the Fort and he also knew he couldn’t do it, not until those lazy wankers fucked all the whores and drank all the booze. Frustrated and tired, he squeezed his eyes shut but immediately saw _her_ – here, with him, on these washed out, stained sheets. She was smiling at him, a faint blush on her cheeks, and then she leaned in and kissed him. He _felt_ her lips on his, and they were warm and soft and tasted of ripe cherries. He opened the eyes and sucked in a breath of air, fisting the sheet beneath him. Fuck everything. He’d leave in the morning.


	3. Chapter 3

Father once told Fitzgerald that a man was in control of his own life, that God or whoever was there – if there was anyone – could only observe, but not interfere. Fitzgerald always agreed with this opinion and it gave him confidence. He walked the life like a hunter walks the forest – armed and calm. He decided what to do, he decided where to go, he decided if he wanted to stay or leave. The weight of this sacred knowledge was akin to the weight of his rifle and knife – familiar, trustworthy and safe. When he was stripped of his weapons he felt naked and defenseless and it made him even more suspicious and short-tempered than usual.

On the next day he felt particularly naked and defenseless and it made him particularly suspicious and short-tempered. It had been raining since the middle of the night and it was impossible to ride in such swamp-like dirt – not with his Lash having an angry cut on its leg, right above the hoof. Fitzgerald was furious when he discovered the latter and his rage doubled when he found out no one knew what had happened to the horse. The groom, a wary sickly lad, promised he’d do everything in his power to heal Lash but as Mister understood, he couldn’t promise anything. Mister understood all right, but _hoped_ the boy would try his _hardest_. Leaving the scared groom to tend to Lash, Fitzgerald went back to the inn. There he spent at least quarter an hour looking at his gloomy reflection on the surface of tepid ale in his mug. That was God’s – or Devil’s, for that matter – working. He, Fitzgerald, _wanted_ to go away but he _couldn’t_ , and neither could he _do anything_ about it. He couldn’t change the weather. He had no money to purchase a new horse. Shit, in a few days he’d have no money to buy himself food and drink. And what could he do?

He lifted the mug to take another swig, but something hit him on the shoulder and the ale splashed right in his face and on his coat. Snorting and spitting, Fitzgerald turned to see a tall wiry man in a crudely made raccoon hat. He was older than Fitzgerald, with piercing black eyes, a crooked nose and a weird-looking scar on a tanned, weathered face.

“Sorry, fella,” the man smirked. “I ain’t done tha’ on purpose, I jus’ tripped is all.”

But the blood already rushed to Fitzgerald’s head and thumped in his ears.

“Let’s talk it over outside.”

“Hey, I said sorry, didn’ I? Wha’s the matter with ya?” frowned the man.

“Then you won’t mind saying it again, will you? And I’ll hear you better out there, without all this noise.”

The man said nothing, only narrowed his eyes and slowly headed for the door. Fitzgerald followed him several seconds later, leaving some coins by the half-empty mug.

  He didn’t expect a fair fight – he never did, because there was no such thing in his life and he doubted its existence altogether – but a powerful blow to the back still took him by surprise. He tumbled down in a shallow puddle and instinctively rolled to the side, making the man in the raccoon hat kick the cold, wet dirt.

“I’ll teach ya a lesson, ya brat!” growled the man, drawing a vicious-looking hunting knife.

Fitzgerald scrambled to his feet and gripped the handle of his own knife. Maybe it’s time.

The man bared his teeth and plunged forward. Fitzgerald dodged and suddenly felt someone’s strong arms restrain him.

“The fuck you doin’, both of you?” Harris firmly held kicking and writhing Fitzgerald. “Stop it!”

The man in the raccoon hat tried to attack again but in the last second was intercepted by the blacksmith, who threw him to the ground and held there.

“You think we got nothin’ else to do, huh? You think Mr. Thompson got no better business than to waste his time on the likes of you? He’s got enough on his plate with those bloody Injuns crawlin’ around!” the merchant was huffing and puffing with indignation. “Now, son, go to your room and sleep it off. We all here know that you’re young and pretty new to this kind o’ thing, so we’ll let you get away with it for the first and the last time. If we catch you fighting again, it’s jail, understood?”

Fitzgerald nodded and the merchant let him go. He couldn’t believe his ears, but decided not to push his luck. Maybe there really were so many Injuns around here that they wanted to keep everyone fit to carry guns at hand?

“Now to you, Kitter,” the merchant stomped to the hissing and cursing man, still being held by the blacksmith. “You been warned, isn’t that right? Lift ‘im up, Sam, and get ‘im to Thompson, I’ll check in on Dr. Simmons.”

The name made Fitzgerald turn away from the blacksmith who was effortlessly dragging the still swearing Kitter to the best-looking house across the square.

“Dr. Simmons? Something happened to him?”

“Aye, nasty business,” Harris shook his head and blew his nose in a dirty handkerchief. “Some whore from the inn was in early labor and somethin’ went really wrong, so they both died – the girl and the baby. And guess who was the father? A trapper from the bunch that got here recently, the one with a wild beard, seen ‘im? I dunno if they got here on purpose, for ‘im to see his girl, or it was just a coincidence, but the fact remains: he was here when she died. And he was drunk, so he thought it was the doctor’s fault. Long story short, he hit old Simmons with a chair, right over the head, and our doctor been unconscious ever since. We all reckon he’s gonna die soon.”

“And what about his daughter?”

“And that’s none of your business. Leave the girl alone.”

 

Fitzgerald was really good at two things: shooting and having his own way. So once Harris disappeared from his sight, he ran straight to the doctor’s house and knocked on the door.

She opened it a second later, eyes red and swollen, kind face distorted by grief.

 

“Is it my father?”

“No, er, not exactly… I… I just heard about him. I just wanted to say I’m really sorry and, er, ask if you need anything.”

 

She sniffled and shrugged her shoulders.

 

“I don’t know. I want to see my father but they won’t let me. If you could accompany me?..”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Miss Simmons. You’ve already exhausted yourself, look, you’re barely standing.”

 

She let out a strained chuckle.

 

“You sound exactly like Mrs. Harris.”

“I never met her, but she got a point. You eaten today?”

“I think so. Oh, please, come in. I forgot my manners.”

 

She ushered Fitzgerald in a big room. One corner was partitioned by two faded striped curtains, another held a black potbelly stove. Near the stove stood a large cabinet with shelves full of jars, bottles, phials and linen pouches. From the top of the cabinet hung several bunches of dried herbs.

 

“Please, sit down,” Mary gestured to the old, time-stained table near the window on the right. “I’ll get the tea.”

“I’ll do it. You sit down.”

 

Without saying a word, she seated herself on a stool and stared off into the space, while Fitzgerald fumbled with a kettle and cups.

 

“Here you go. I used to make tea for my mom. She liked it. I hope you’ll like it, too.”

 

Mary took a sip and put the cup down.

 

“Yeah, it’s good. Thank you.”

 

They sat in silence for some time. Fitzgerald tried to figure what to say next without appearing rude or hard-hearted and, in order to put off his inevitable failure, drank scalding hot tea. Mary was looking at something on the wall, slender fingers tapping on the smooth, shiny wood of the tabletop. When the atmosphere began to be unbearable and Fitzgerald cursed his rashness which led him here, there was a knock on the door. Mary startled and her cup flew to the floor, turning into a pile of white chips in a steaming brown puddle.

 

“Stay here, Miss Simmons, I’ll get it.”

* * *

Harris’ face turned pink when he saw Fitzgerald.

 

“I told you to leave the girl alone!”

“She _was_ alone when I came, done her no good.”

“She was supposed to be with my wife… Ah, never mind! Just get out of here, we’ll talk about it later.”

 

Fitzgerald didn’t hear Mary come up to him and almost started at the soft touch of her hand.

 

“It’s okay, Mr. Harris. Mr. Fitzgerald came to express his condolences and offer his support. Is it?..”

 

Harris shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, looking down and clearly wishing to be somewhere else. Finally, he managed to collect himself and look up.

 

“I’m ever so sorry, Miss Simmons.”

“When?”

“Five minutes ago.”

 

Fitzgerald expected her to faint and prepared to catch her before she hit the floor, but she just blinked and took her coat from the hook on the door-post.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Harris. I’ll go with you. Mr. Fitzgerald, thank you for your support. I’m really grateful.”

“May I come with you?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. Please, don’t be offended.”

“I understand, Miss Simmons. If you need anything, I’ll be at the inn, just ask for me.”

“You are very kind. Let’s go, Mr. Harris.”

 

Fitzgerald watched them cross the square and disappear in a small pass between the shop and the smithy. She knew how to take the blow, that girl. He only hoped that she wasn’t like him. That she wouldn’t lose it afterwards, with no one around, and wouldn’t let bad thoughts cloud her mind. It was another thing he wouldn’t wish on anyone.

* * *

 

Was he surprised when in the evening he heard a soft tap on his door? No. Did he expect to see Mary? Yes. He wanted that with all his heart. He wanted to hold her tight and tell her it was goin’ to be fine, that if she desired so, he would never leave her side and do everything in his power to make her happy.

 

“ ‘Ello, kid. Mr. Kitter says hi.”

 

Fitzgerald stared at two sturdy men standing on the threshold. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised.


End file.
